The drum beats continue, and then the line of women marches forward, heads bent. I mimic them automatically, though I’m peeking around as we walk down the long, dark corridors. There’s a scent of rain in the air, and I can hear thunder. It messes up the steady rhythm of the drums, which is more than a little jarring. There also seem to be even more people in this building than before. Not all of them are wearing the long red robes, but the number of soldiers seems to be greater, as does the number of civilians dressed in simple tunics. It’s like everyone’s turning out for a party.
I can just bet what the entertainment’s going to be.
The line of blondes winds through the crowded corridor, and then we’re led into a very large, smoky chamber. The drummers wait at the edges of the room, staring ahead, tapping out their rhythm.
The crowd is packed in here, and the humidity is making more than one sweat. There’s a faint body odor stink in the room, but no one’s leaving. If anything, more people are crowding in. The entire room is wall to wall people except for the back wall, which is a massive feast table laden with foods of every kind. Up ahead at the front of the room, I catch a glimpse of a large stone throne up on a dais. It’s empty, as if we’re waiting for the guest of honor.
Behind the dais is a banner of sumptuous red cloth with the battleaxe symbol and a lightning bolt going through it. I scan the room, looking for my pear-headed owner. He’s off talking to a few soldiers squeezed into a corner, but I notice he keeps looking in this direction. I want to make a break for it, but I’m being watched.
Suddenly, everything goes silent.
There’s an ominous rumble of thunder, but the drums are quiet, the people are quiet, everything in the temple is quiet. A man strolls forward and the crowd—already packed to the gills—tries to part for him. People squeeze against one another to give him room to pass. He moves forward, heading to the row of blondes, and I get a good look at him.
He’s not old. He’s tanned and has a stern face that could be fifty or a hard thirty. He looks like he’s in relatively good shape, and his head is completely shaven. Not my type, but maybe Avalla’s. As he approaches, I notice his robes have a different sweep to them, and I realize his are crusted with gems and what looks like gold along the cuffs and hem. Fancy. Prelating must pay well.
The prelate moves in the mix of people, then raises his hands into the air.
Everyone drops to their knees, bowing their heads.
Well, shit. I clench my bit of broken tile tightly and kneel like all the others, bending my head. Instead of praying, though, I look for exits.
If I’m going to make a break for it, it needs to be soon.
“Rise,” the prelate says. “Rise and let us celebrate the Lord of Storms, Aron of the Cleaver, Butcher God of Battle in his chosen hour, the hour of storms. Today is the day we celebrate the Anticipation.”
Blah blah Anticipation. No one looks excited about anything except the food. There are looks of boredom on everyone’s faces. I guess no one’s “anticipating” all that much.
Ha.
The red-robed man raises his arms into the air again, like a preacher without a pulpit. “Every year upon this day, we celebrate in the hopes that the gods will send an Aspect, as it is told in the sacred scrolls. This temple is dedicated to Aron of the Cleaver, our Lord of Storms, the butcher of battle, but we welcome any of the twelve gods if they should honor us with their presence.”
He turns and bows to the empty throne which remains, you guessed it, empty.
There’s a bit of polite clapping. Everyone still looks bored.
The prelate turns back to the crowd once more. “In honor of this day and our Lord of Storms, we will feast in his name.”
That makes people happy. A cheer goes up.
The prelate turns toward us. “One maiden will be chosen to serve me in the Lord of Storms’s honor. The rest shall be given as cleaver brides.”
No one responds. Someone makes an impatient noise. Another man rolls his eyes.
I’m thinking the Anticipation is a big let-down every year. I bet it’s a lot like Christmas, when